The Adventures of Bass Reeves Deputy US Marshal

by Charles Ray

  Two of his three posse men, Jake Stern, a stoop-shouldered farmer who worked a small holding not far from Bass’s farm near Van Buren, Arkansas, and Alvin Steadman, a half-breed white who was part Cherokee, but who preferred not to live in the territory with his tribe, had been urging him to take the six men they’d already captured back to the federal jail in Fort Smith, as they were quickly approaching the month that such trips normally took. The third, an old friend from his days in the territory, during the War of Southern Insurrection when he’d run away from Texas and his abusive master, Colonel George Reeves of the 11 th Texas Cavalry, right after the Battle of Pea Ridge in March 1862, Joseph Lone Tree, a full-blood Cherokee, by whose side he’d fought in Cherokee Chief Opotheyahola’s pro-Union cavalry brigade during the war, and who often accompanied him on his forays into Indian Territory, kept silent. Henry knew Bass well and knew that when he set his mind to something, there was no turning him away from it.

  “Look, you fellas,” Bass said. “I got me warrants here for the Dawkins gang, and we ain’t goin’ back to Forth Smith until all six of ‘em is chained in that there empty wagon.”

  “Couldn’t we just take these ones in, take a few days to rest, and come back for Dawkins and his yahoos?” Stern asked. “My rump’s plumb sore from bein’ in the saddle for near on to a month now.”

  “Naw, we ain’t puttin’ it off to next trip. Now, quite your belly achin’, and let’s get on in to town and see if somebody can tell us where to find ‘em.”

  Henry chuckled as Bass wheeled his horse and headed off down the road. As stubborn as a mule, that Bass is, he thought, and with them big fists of his, when he hits a man, it feels like he been kicked by a mule. At six-foot-two and weighing nearly two hundred pounds, Bass was far bigger than the average man, and could whip any two people in a fair fight. His prowess with rifle and hand gun, in either hand, was known throughout Arkansas and the Indian Territory, and since he’d been a young slave boy, butler, bodyguard, and valet to old man William Reeves, father of George, he’d been taught to use weapons, and had such a natural feel for them, the old man had entered him in turkey shoots and other shooting competitions from the time he was a teenager, and he’d won them all against competitors, black and white. He was so good, in fact, that around Van Buren, he’d been banned from entering competitions on the grounds that it was unfair to all the other competitors. Bass, in the eyes of his friend, was like a tornado, a force of nature that you didn’t want to get crosswise to.

  When they rode into Tishomingo, one of the main towns in the lands owned and controlled by the Chickasaw tribe, the sight of a wagon with six chained fugitives staring through the bars brought most of the residents out into the streets to gawk and point. Bass rode in front, looking for a sheriff’s office where he could make enquiries as to the whereabouts of the Dawkins gang.

  When he saw the town hall, a two-story wood frame building sandwiched between a funeral home and a saloon, he decided that it would do. A town official should know what was going on.

  “Y’all wait here,” he said as he dismounted. “I’m goin’ inside and see if they knows where we might find Dawkins and his men.”

  While Henry, the other two posse men, and Harvey Jackson, the cook, saw to the animals and prisoners, Bass rode across the street to the town hall. He dismounted and secured his black stallion to the hitching rail.

  Except for a slump-shouldered, balding man of middle years, his shirt sleeves rolled up his scrawny arms almost to his elbows, sitting at a large desk piled high with documents of various sizes and thicknesses, the reception area of the building was empty. The ceiling was high, and the two large windows in the front of the building let in sufficient light, but the man still had a coal oil lantern on his desk, which struck Bass as a dangerous practice, given the untidy state of the paper scattered around the lantern. Bass had expected to find an Indian in the town hall, not a white man, but he’d noticed that more and more whites were settling in the territory, and many of the tribes, despite the shabby treatment they’d historically received from whites, accepted them.

  He approached the desk but kept back about four feet, figuring there was no sense taking the chance that the man wouldn’t accidently tip the lantern over and set the whole room ablaze. The man was peering intently at a map, his fingers tracing the irregular lines drawn upon it. Bass waited patiently for half a minute, occasionally scraping the toe of his boot against the hardwood floor to get the man’s attention.

  Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me, mister,” he said. “I hate to interrupt you, but I need some information.”

  The man looked up, regarding Bass with watery blue eyes.

  “Oh, sorry, stranger,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in. What you want to know?”

  Bass pulled the warrant for the Dawkins gang from his coat pocket and put it on the desk. “That there’s a federal warrant for the arrest of Clint Dawkins and the members of his gang. They’s wanted for cattle rustling and a whole bunch of other things. I heard they might be operatin’ here in Chickasaw Nation.”

  The man picked the warrant up and held it close to his face. When he put it down, he looked up at Bass, a frown on his face.

  “Can’t rightly say I know ‘em or have heard anything about ‘em. ‘Course I doubt they’d be comin’ to a place like Tishomingo, ‘specially if they’s tryin’ to unload stolen livestock.”

  “You got any idea where I might start lookin’ for ‘em?”

  “Well now, you might look over Fort Sill way. The purchasing agent for the army there ain’t too particular where goods come from. Could be, if they’re selling stolen cattle, they’d head over that way.”

  Bass hadn’t thought of that possibility, but it made sense. It wasn’t uncommon for the civilian traders who made purchases on behalf of the government to cut corners in order to maximize their own profits.

  “That ain’t a bad idea,” he said. “I reckon we’ll mosey on over that way.”

  “So, you’re a deputy marshal, are you?” the man asked, despite Bass’s badge being displayed prominently on his coat. “Do you only go after outlaws you got a warrant for?”

  “No, it’s our job to enforce the law, so if we run into some galoot breaking the law, we have to take him in.”

  “Well, we got ourselves one of the biggest and meanest outlaws in the territory right here in Chickasaw Nation. Would you be interested in going after him?”

  “That depends. Who is he, and what’s he done?”

  “He’s a Seminole, goes by the name of Greenleaf. As to what he’s done, well, there ain’t much he ain’t done. Mostly, though, he runs whiskey from Texas into the nation, but he also does a little robbery and murder.”

  While it wasn’t a high priority, the deputy marshals were charged with trying to stem the flow of liquor into Indian Territory. Robbery and murder, on the other hand, made this a higher priority case.

  “Who’s he done kilt, and when?” Bass asked.

  “Word is he done killed and robbed a mail rider over near Fort Washita a few days ago.”

  “In that case, I’m plumb interested in gettin’ him. You know where he might be found?”

  “Right at the moment, no,” the man said. “But, I hear he’s bringin’ in a load of whiskey today or tomorrow. He sells the stuff out of a compound over near Ardmore.”

  Bass thought about it. This would delay getting the Dawkins crew, but the killing of a mail rider was serious business. His own group wouldn’t be too happy at the time this would add to this trip, but, he thought, the law’s the law.

  “I reckon we’ll ride on over to Ardmore and see if we can find this here Greenleaf fella,” he said.

  CHAPTER 2

  Just as he’d anticipated, Stern and Steadman grumbled at the extra time away from their families going after Greenleaf would mean, but when Bass announced that this also meant more money in their pockets, as they were being paid three dollars a day, they quieted down. Jac
kson informed Bass that he would need to stop at the general store and buy a few extra supplies for the added time, and Henry simply nodded.

  After the extra rations were stowed away in the cook wagon, they set out for Ardmore, located about thirty miles west of Tishomingo. It was nearing dark when they arrived on the outskirts of the town.

  “Y’all get the horses to the livery stable,” he said to Stern and Steadman. “And I’ll see if the local sheriff can house our prisoners for the night.”

  “What if he won’t?” Stern asked.

  “Then, we guard ‘em while they sleep in the livery stable with the animals.”

  It turned out that Stern’s pessimism was right. The local jail, according to the deputy who was on evening duty, was filled to capacity after a donnybrook at a local saloon, so they made arrangements with the owner of the livery stable to chain the six prisoners in an empty stall, and they took turns guarding them, while the rest of the crew slept outside on saddle blankets under the wagons.

  The next morning, Bass went back to the sheriff’s office to get directions to the compound where Greenleaf allegedly kept the whiskey he brought into the area.

  The sheriff, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a white mustache that drooped past his lower lips, welcomed Bass to his office.

  “What kin I do fer you, deputy?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for an outlaw, name of Greenleaf,” Bass replied. “I was hopin’ you might be able to tell me where I might find him.”

  “You ain’t plannin’ to go up agin that injun by yerself, are you?”

  “Well now, that kinda depends on the situation. I got me three posse men with me, though.”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “Four of you agin Greenleaf and his four galoots. You don’t stand a chance. That there Seminole is one mean cuss. I hear he done kilt five or six men, some of ‘em for just lookin’ at him crooked, but most he kilt to rob ‘em.”

  “Why ain’t you arrested him, sheriff?”

  “Well now, deputy, he ain’t done none of these things in my town, so it ain’t my problem. ‘Sides, I only got me two deputies, and they’s just about fit to mind the jail at night or to break up a fight between drunks at the local saloons. Ain’t no way we gonna go up agin Greenleaf, and if you was smart, you’d keep ridin’, too.”

  “I can’t do that. I got a sworn duty to uphold the law. Now, can you tell me where I might find him?”

  Shaking his head, the sheriff gave Bass directions to Greenleaf’s place, a fenced-in compound just north of town and off the main road about half a mile.

  Bass left Steadman and Jackson to guard the prisoners and took Henry and Stern to get a look at the layout.

  The trail leading in from the main road was little more than two lines in the grass, made by wagons traveling the same route for who knew how many years. Tall evergreens lined the trail as it wound up a slight hill. At the top, it dipped down into a bowl of a valley, in the center of which was a high rail fence surrounding a one-story wood-frame house and a barn. An empty wagon sat next to the barn.

  They dismounted and tied their horses to some hardwood saplings in the trees, and crept hunched over to peer at the compound from behind a clump of ivy vines.

  “Looks like he done already delivered the whiskey,” Stern said. “We goin’ down to arrest him now, Bass?”

  Bass scanned the compound. Other than one man with a rifle on his lap, sitting on a chair on the porch of the house, there didn’t seem to be any guards. But, as he well knew, there would be other armed men around, and the last thing he wanted was a gun battle.

  “Naw, I think we oughta wait until they settle in for the night,” he said. “We’ll let ‘em get good and asleep, and then we move in.”

  “Just the three of us?”

  “If they’s all sleepin’, it won’t take but the three of us.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Waiting, when there’s nothing to do but sit and listen to the clicking, whistling, chirping, and hooting of night creatures, is difficult for most people. It certainly was for Stern, who mumbled to himself and fidgeted during the entire evening as they sat in the thick ivy vines watching Greenleaf’s compound, from first dark until the sky began to get the first tinges of purplish-gray, signaling that dawn was imminent. Bass and Henry, accustomed to sitting quietly for hours during reconnaissance missions during the war, and on hunting trips after, sat cross-legged, their forearms resting on their thighs, and simply waited.

  Finally, Bass sensed that the people in the compound would be in the last stages of sleep, probably dreaming, and any guard would be either asleep or drowsy. He rose in a fluid motion and brushed off the seat of his trousers.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  “About time,” Stern said. “My backside was gettin’ all cramped up sittin’ here on this cold ground. I don’t know how the two of you do it.”

  “Well, git the cramps out and lets git movin’.”

  “Are we going through the front gate?” Henry asked.

  “Naw, that things looks like it’ll screech like an old owl. I reckon we just hoist ourselves over the fence.”

  “Aw, jeez,” Stern said. “First, I gotta sit here all night and git all cramped up, and now I gotta go climb over a rail fence. Bass, you sure don’t make these trips easy on a fella, I’ll tell you that.”

  Bass laughed quietly. Stern complained about everything, but he always did what he was asked to do. “Goin’ over the fence and not gettin’ shot at is a mite better than the other way ‘round, don’t you reckon?”

  “Yeah, I s’pose so. Aw, let’s git this over with.”

  The three men made their way slowly to a point at the fence off to the side where there wasn’t a clear view from the house, just in case the guard was on the porch and wasn’t sleeping. As usual, Bass went first, pulling himself up and over the fence with ease. Henry followed, and then came Stern, who stumbled to his knees and had to put his hand over his mouth to smother the curse that came when his knees hit the hard ground.

  Bass pulled his Colt Peacemaker and motioned for Henry and Stern to do the same. He put a finger to his lips and began moving toward the house.

  They moved in single file, Bass leading and Stern following Henry. When they reached the house, Bass edged along the wall and peeked around the corner. As he suspected, the lone guard was slumped in a chair, his rifle on his lap, snoring loudly. He tapped Henry on the shoulder and pointed at the guard. Henry slipped past him as silent as a shadow, crouching low until he was in front of the sleeping guard. He then stepped up onto the porch. The loose boards made a creaking sound. The guard jerked awake and made a sniffing sound just as the butt of Henry’s rifle slammed into his head. He slumped back in the chair, no longer snoring. Henry turned and waved Bass and Stern forward.

  “He’s gonna have a powerful headache when he wakes up,” Stern said, looking down at the unconscious man.

  “Hush up,” Bass whispered. “You gon’ wake ‘em up inside the house.”

  He might as well have saved his warning. He eased the door open, and the three of them stepped inside. The room they entered was a large sitting room, but sparsely furnished. A ragged old sofa sat in the center, fronted by a rough-wood carved low table, upon which sat four empty whiskey bottles. A man lay sprawled on the sofa, his mouth open, and a line of spittle trailing down his chin. Off to his left, another man lay in a heap on the floor, his thumb in his mouth, and making snorting noises through his nose.

  “Don’t neither one of them look like this fella Greenleaf,” Bass whispered. “Get ‘em trussed up, and I’ll go look for him.”

  He walked carefully across the room, but neither of the sleeping men noticed. There were two doors at the far side. Through the open one Bass could see into the kitchen, with pots, pans, and dishes stacked haphazardly on a table in the center, but otherwise empty. The other was closed, and he assumed that it led to a bedroom.

  He was right. He opened the door and slipped i
nto a large room, about the same size as the sitting room. A brass rail bed in the far corner, with a body draped over the covers, face down, snoring loudly, one boot on, the other lying on its side beside the bed. A whiskey bottle on its side on the floor, some of its contents having leaked and left a large, irregular dark stain on the wood floor.

  Bass could see the left side of the sleeping man’s face, and from the description he’d been given recognized him as the notorious Seminole outlaw, Greenleaf.

  He walked across the room and put the tip of the barrel against the man’s cheek.

  “Time to wake up, sleepy head,” he said.

  Greenleaf’s eyes blinked open and his body stiffened. “Wha-, who, how in hell did you git in here?”

  “Why, I just walked through the door. I would’ve knocked, but everybody was sleepin’. Now, haul your carcass outa that there bunk. I’m placin’ you under arrest.”

  Greenleaf blinked again, and slowly rolled over until he was lying on his back, his eyes crossed as Bass placed the business end of the Colt on the bridge of his nose.

  “Who in the blazes are you?”

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” Bass said. “I’m Bass Reeves, deputy United States marshal out of Fort Smith, Arkansas. You, I take it, are Greenleaf, bootlegger, thief, and murderer?”

  The Seminole growled something unintelligible.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Now, set up so’s I can put the irons on you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  With Greenleaf and his three confederates in chains and in the wagon with the six other prisoners, Bass set out in earnest to locate Clint Dawkins and his gang.

  Taking the advice of the sheriff, Bass concentrated on the trails heading west, especially those that terminated at Fort Sill, the cavalry installation in the southeastern region of what was being called Oklahoma Territory. Troopers of the Tenth Cavalry were currently among those stationed there, and the purchasing agents who provided supplies to the colored soldiers had, Bass knew, slightly more tendency to cut corners than did those buying for other units. It made sense that if Dawkins had cattle to unload, that would be the place to go.